The Jew Broker's in Tottenham Court Road for Fifty-Five Shillings
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Happy Hanukkah (Chanukah, Chanukkah?)! It has always kinda bugged me, the somewhat anti-semetic bit of canon about how Sherlock gets his Stradivarius, so I decided to update it using bits from Cardboard Box and Mazarin Stone. Please let me know what you think.


If it wasn't for the complete and utterly staggering incompetence of the Yard, she might have been found in time. As it was, by the time I was called in and had mapped out an area to search, the body had already begun to rot. I did nothing. I could determine neither who her killer was, nor where he had gone. Why I should have been so richly rewarded for such an abysmal failure, I will never truly understand.

I had come back years later, searching for information about a stolen diamond. Ikey Sanders had refused to cut the gem up. Suspicious, and rightly so, he had called the police no sooner than the customer had left. Lestrade had the good sense to let me follow through on the case. I doubt he remembered this old pawn shop, a small and weather-beaten storefront on a deserted section of Tottenham Court Road, but it is my curse to always remember such things. Ikey was running it now, no longer the old man whose niece I had found far too late.

"Pappa, Mr. Holmes is here."

And then I saw him. That same old man, rising with great difficulty from a stool in the back room. His eyes shone.

"I told him about the diamond," Ikey said. Ikey was a first-generation college student, majoring in engineering. He would not carry on the family business. His grandfather knew this. He liked cutting stones, though. Transforming things. He likely had wished he had been able to cut that diamond. Morality trumped ambition.

The old man was still as sharp as a tack. He nodded to his grandson and then turned to me.

"Mr. Holmes, I have learned much of you. You have been in papers lately," he said, in his familiar Russian accent, only sporadically employing definite articles.

"Must make for dull reading," I stated.

"No, no, I learn very interesting things. That you are fine violinist, for example. Your inspector, he would not give to me your address. For your own safety, I think. And that is good. I knew, G_d willing, I would meet you again. I should have expected it would be now, The Season of Miracles for us both, yes?"

I looked over to the small menorah on the counter, the large, fully-decorated Christmas tree in the shop window, an angel on top. There were watches and jewelry and other gift items neatly displayed beneath it. I gave a non-committal hum. He smiled at that.

"I have something of great interest for you."

The man brought out an old violin case, which had clearly seen better days. It looked to have been manufactured in the 20s. He placed it on the counter and opened it. I could not see inside.

"First…" he said, with a smile, handing me the bow.

"An appraisal? Brazilwood, hardly worth keeping." I held it out straight from my body "Warped, actually… not worth a pound. Modern manufacturer though, so, incongruous with the case. A family heirloom." I returned the bow, admittedly with very little care.

He placed it back in the case. "Yes, yes, family heirloom, but not _my_ family. I get it in auction."

He held out the violin to me, slowly, cradling it with both hands.

"You did not purchase this at auction," I said flatly.

"Oh, that I did." He grinned. "Though not traditional one. You are quite correct. Had it been with other instruments, someone would have _definitely_ outbid me."

"A mass purchase."

"Storage locker. I bought whole thing blind." He waved a hand in the air. "No one wanted it… because the locker was _small_. Good things in small packages come, yes?"

I was hesitant to hold it, but he placed it gently in my hands. The bright red wrapping at the base of the strings clashed with the delicate coloring of the wood. "And with Supersensitive strings?"

"Yes, I can only assume it was used by child. It is a miracle there is no damage to the instrument. Perhaps they give up on it quickly."

"That… is quite the treasure."

"I need to clear out some of inventory before the Christmas rush. This shop, it does not get very busy until much closer to Christmas. People do not like to buy pawned goods. They have first to realize they can not afford, or can not find, what it is they are looking for elsewhere. But, this store is a good place for the bargains. This bow, it has been sitting here forever. I need some sort of promotion to move the merchandise. It is worth, as you say, less than a pound. So. How's about I sell it to you for 55 pence? And I will throw in this old violin and case for free. It is too old to be worth much. People, they like shiny, new things."

I have no idea what expression I could possibly have had, but he looked at me in earnest and spoke again quickly. "Please."

"I didn't save her, Mordecai. I don't deserve any type of reward, let alone something like this."

The old man glanced at the numbers on his arm. "Long ago, I give up trying to figure out who is destined to be saved and who isn't. I just am grateful for the ones who are and mourn the ones who are not, and try to carry on. But you give me a gift I can not express. My sister, she died last month. She had that gift, too, from you. To know what happened to her daughter. As terrible as it is… I know. She could put her to rest, our Sarah."

"I can't acc…"

"What do I know from violins?" He threw both hands in the air. "This… is probably just a worthless old copy; there are hundreds of thousands of them. I'm just an old Jew pawnbroker. A peddler, like my father before me, and his father before him. We give people money for things. We find things. We save them from being thrown out. If someone asks you where you get this, just say the Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road. Take it. Please."


End file.
